Monday, November 27, 2017

Ours Alone

Two mugs, these gifts. In the green
freedom of Sunday morning. You,
with late coffee watching the hot architecture
of tyrannosaurus blooming while I sip
my good earth hearing a piano recital.
The English muffin is not burnt.
Your maple syrup has 50% less…
My fiberized cereal has 30% more…
One cup says Carnegie Hall,
the other from the Natural History Museum;
with hot brew the flesh of Rex reveals its bones,
is then restored as it cools. Even
those things extinct can be recovered. I’m thinking
of that breakfast in Connemara.
Now you are walking in the Bois d’Amour.
What passes between us is hushed
across this table of boisterous still-life beyond
even Vincent’s lovingly crazed impasto.
Everything is for sale in the Sunday paper
but we have (common)wealth and need nothing.
You shape a new poem 
with super califragilistic fecundation
deciphering the off-shore fog.
Buzzy-the Hummer is a no-show, nearly 
bare branches, empty bowl.
The silent “n” at the end of autumn.
What I blurted yesterday was 
bourgeois, you say. 
I laugh because it’s true.
Like Rene Descartes almost said,
Sometimes I think therefore
Sometimes I am.
Oh, this extravagant life, this quiet jubilation.

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